


Lost Night

by skargasm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Implied Slash, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:52:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skargasm/pseuds/skargasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite the gaps in his memory, he was feeling so peaceful he couldn’t bring himself to care….</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Night

It was the cold that woke him. Before he was even fully awake, he’d shifted forward towards the heat in front of him. He snuffled at the soft hair tickling his nose, wrinkling his nose at the scent that he recognises but can’t quite identify. It smells slightly of coffee, wet grass and strangely sunshine and reminded him of Sunday mornings with his family when he would be allowed outside to play after affectionate hugs and kisses from his parents. His heart clenched slightly with sadness because it has been so long since that happened but the scent is comforting enough for him to use it to push the sadness down. 

He shifted forward again until his body is almost perfectly aligned with the body in front of him: his chest is pressed to a lean back and his hips form a bowl for the surprisingly rounded ass he is snuggled up to. 

His right arm is bent at the elbow and his hand is tucked up under the plumpness of a pillow. But it’s the heavy head resting on his bicep that is—confusing. Surprising. He doesn’t remember getting into that position and certainly not with the person that the head belonged to. The buzz-cut is familiar—he knows that he went through a stage of growing it after High School, had in fact visited from college with what seemed to be a veritable mane of hair. But once he came back to Beacon Hills and started teaching, he’d buzzed it off again.

But that head had never rested next to him like _this_ before.

That long, lanky body that was always so deceptively strong despite its leanness has never been pressed up against him in his bed; the smooth, creamy skin with its smattering of moles had never been decorated with what were undeniably his marks. He recognised his teeth marks, can see stubble burn where he has obviously rubbed his face from side-to-side, can clearly see from the different areas of redness and the layers of his scent where he has licked and nibbled. His marks. 

His left arm is wrapped almost protectively around a lean waist—almost protectively but definitely possessively. His palm is pressed against the flat belly, his fingers shifting absently, playing with the light dusting of hair that leads down from the indentation of a belly button. There is a heaviness to one of his fingers that is unusual but he cannot bring himself to care.

His brain is still fuzzy—he can’t remember the details of the previous evening but his body is a clear reminder of how the night has gone. He has that deep-seated boneless feeling, that satisfaction sitting in his gut alongside aches and pains that tell him exactly what he had been doing the night before. Even his balls are aching which meant he had glutted himself—his hips are telling him that they are not interested in any movement at all at the moment and he can feel scratches on his shoulders that are healing slowly. The slowness of the healing tells him that his wolf wants the marks to remain and it adds to his sense of contentment. He should be more concerned about the blanks in his memory, about his inability to name the man who feels like he belongs in his arms but he simply cannot bring himself to care. 

Life was normally so hard, so difficult—decisions, fights, responsibilities—for just a little while he wants to simply enjoy this. How right it feels, how inevitable, how fated.

Vaguely satisfied with that decision, he pressed a soft kiss on the nape of the neck in front of him before closing his eyes, happy to drift back to sleep for now.

* * *

It was the gentle kiss on the nape of his neck that woke Stiles up. His first thought was ‘What the fuck?’ As he registered the arm wrapped so possessively around his waist, the muscular legs entangled with his own and the feel of someone who’s decidedly happy to be nestled up against his (sore) ass, he revised that thought to ‘What the fucking shit of hell?”

What elevated everything to a higher level was the gold band—the **new** gold band—on the ring finger of his left hand that was nestled against its’ mate on the large hand pressed against his stomach. The previous evening had so many blanks it resembled a bad macramé project but what stood out clearly was how— _where_ the whole evening had started. How only one person knew about how he felt, about why he had really come back to Beacon Hills to have had a hand in this. 

He was going to fucking **KILL** Scott!

* * *

fin

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> First attempt at Sterek and it’s all very vague and not fully formed – I have no idea what my muse is thinking or whether this will even be continued…I blame Tumblr where my username is skmanganelli


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